


the tulips are too excitable

by silenceinmolasses



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Insecurity, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Manipulation, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson at Columbia, Metaphors, Neediness, Pining, Poetic, Pre-Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-15 06:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19289632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceinmolasses/pseuds/silenceinmolasses
Summary: Love is attentive and love is generous and it doesn't hold your faults against you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from “Tulips” by Sylvia Plath.

Under the soft, worn material of his sweatpants, Foggy’s thigh is warm and grounding. His heart in Matt’s ear picks up, a tripping metronome, playful sparkling drops against glass, Matt imagines gold, he thinks he does, as far as he can remember colors.

He pats Foggy’s leg, greedily seeking more warmth, more giving muscle, more _everything_ , lost in the sloshing beer in the bottle Foggy’s holding and the sharp, airy and sugary smell of roses two floors above. Just for a moment, Matt forgets why he’s cold, why he’s upset, why they’re drinking in the middle of the week. His fingers trace the inseam of Foggy’s trousers up his thigh, petal soft, honey slow. Foggy’s sweat on the insides of his elbows and the body oil along his hairline smell of the day he had, all the people he interacted with, but it also smells of Matt, _his_ sweat and the remnants of _his_ body wash scattered like pastry crumbs on a plate. Matt leans closer; as they’re already flush against one another on Foggy’s bed, he overbalances and mushes his face into Foggy’s chest. There’s a stain of raspberry jam near the collar.

And Foggy’s heart. _Oh_ , his heart.

Matt presses closer. It’s a chance to immerse himself in Foggy’s softness, to surround himself in his spicy and sweet boy-man scent, to hear how the giggle builds in his throat until it explodes through his lips.

“Matt, Matty, Matty,” Foggy chants above. His large hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck. Matt hums as an answer. They should relax like this more often. There are no pressing matters tomorrow or the day after, they can take some time for themselves away from studying. Nothing fancy, nothing over the top. Matt exhales, trying not to wiggle too enthusiastically as Foggy combs his fingers through his hair, mindful of knots, curling the tips on his knuckles.

“You should grow your hair out,” sure, whatever Foggy wants, “continuing the noble tradition of looking like hippies among all these posh kids. What am I saying, you would look all handsome and sophisticated no matter what. You would rock a mullet, Matty,” Matt smothers his chuckle in Foggy’s tee. He loves when Foggy says stuff like that, when he says he thinks Matt’s handsome. 

The handsomest in the land and all that.

He likes to imagine he is exactly Foggy’s type.

He somewhat is. Matt is the only one Foggy calls his best friend, and his heart, his beautiful heart, beats true true true when he does. They’re doing great. He’s doing great, he just needs to continue doing what he’s doing.

And then, only then, he remembers why what he’s doing is not enough and _why_ the inside of his mouth tastes of cheap beer and plastic-salty popcorn.

Matt freezes, his muscles locking up, the goosebumps almost painful where he does not touch Foggy. 

Foggy’s whole persona is like sunbeams over water, slippery friendliness reaching places Matt had no idea could be opened up, could be warmed up. Sometimes he feels stuffed with diamonds, the edges sharp and they rub against the memories of his Dad’s last fight, of Stick, of his time in the orphanage.

At those nights he doesn't sleep. Matt tires himself out in the local gym, he punches the bag till he forgets how to form a fist correctly and in the morning Foggy doesn't let him leave the bed for hours. Their little room smells of fresh cocoa, dark and rich. Being at the center of Foggy’s attention makes it so easy to forget that other people might also capture him in their claws.

Matt can hear Marci’s stiletto heels in his nightmares. She makes Foggy blush genuinely, he’s putty her presence, and Matt’s panicking, a slow burning in his guts.

What can he do? How to get Foggy back? How to give him what he wants?

“Matty, buddy, move a bit, I remembered we have cookies,” he hears from above. The lovely fingers leave his hair and are now cradling his skull, pushing him away but not really.

How to make Foggy stay?

He clumsily tries to sit up – gotta let Foggy have his cookies –, but there’s static in his knees and then his hand, sticky with sleep sweat, brushes against Foggy’s crotch, the heat in between his pelvis and thighs. Matt’s heart chirps like a bird but he doesn't think Foggy, trying to rip a label off an empty bottle, noticed that his fingers are way too high, that his fingers are eager.

That’s… that’s the answer, isn't it? How to keep Foggy by his side.

Matt’s next touch is deliberate. He splays his fingers, his mouth getting dry and mind running a mile a minute. The feast of a body in front of him makes him headless, cut to pieces, oozing with want. His fingers nudge Foggy’s bulge; now that the thinks about it, he doesn't understand why he didn't think of it sooner.

“Matt?” Foggy asks softly, his heart is a heavy piece of gold and too calm, Matt will make it race. 

He gropes Foggy in between his legs, stretching the material, selfishly trying to gauge the size. Foggy lets out a high-pitched laugh, Matt doesn't think he heard it before.

That’s good.

“Wow, buddy, I think your hand is… hm, wandering around?” he shivers under Matt, his heart spikes as Matt’s lips stretch into a grin. It’s slow, deliberate, it feels a bit sharp on his face, like an edge of a cold can of lemonade, unexpectedly pressed against his skin.

Matt quickly schools his features into friendly, bashful, shy.

“Is that okay?” he asks demurely. Foggy’s body is warmer, the deep and piney smell of beer replaced by a sweetish, cloying scent of arousal. Matt tries not to inhale too obviously, though he feels like he he’s starving.

Foggy doesn't have a habit of jerking off in their room.

Unfortunately.

Matt feels transfixed, his head is spinning with possibilities, of chances, uncovered from below glittery sand of whoever catches Foggy’s fancy. Heat pools in his belly, he is acutely aware of the proximity between them; Foggy’s hands tight on his shoulders, the wet warmth all over his neck, his heart, calling out to Matt, his erection under Matt’s fingers.

He’s, Matt’s smile is too needy again, big.

“That’s okay, wow, yeah, but we’re drunk…” Foggy yelps, his exquisite voice freezing, but his body roaring up like a sea wave, salty and sticky, as Matt hears _that’s okay_ and slides down, overplaying his clumsiness.

“Matty, Matty, Matty,” Foggy flutters like the breath Matt’s exhales on his dick, “you’re drunk. Get up here.”

“Have you never thought it? About me?” Matt asks softly. He’s sprawled over Foggy’s lap and he tries not to appear to eager, desperate to hold their friendship inside of him. He noses Foggy’s crotch almost lazily, the smell is thick, almost savory.

They can start with a drunken, accidental hook up. And then Matt will never let Foggy go.

“I have, of course, I have,” Foggy’s hands move down Matt’s arms, “but you don’t… you don’t have to do anything, alright?” he shifts to put distance between Matt’s mouth and his cock but Matt only leans closer.

“Don’t you want me to?” he doesn't realize his mistake, too intoxicated by their closeness and the intimacy he’s trying so hard to cultivate, until Foggy – gently, lovingly, Matt shudders at the onslaught of softness and wants nothing else – cradles his cheeks and lifts his head.

“Matt, do you want to? Coz if, well, you’re down here because you think you have to for whatever reason, then there’s nothing I want less.”

Matt answered wrong. Among the honey-thick arousal there are specks of anxiety and worry, grassy and cold.

He made Foggy upset. He’s too distracted, too weak, not good enough. He needs to… he needs to…

“Yeah, I do, you feel so good,” he answers calmly, hopefully blushing bright enough. Foggy’s body relaxes a smidge, his fingers brushing over Matt’s cheekbones. Matt’s a glass in his hands, a ball made of sugar, clinging.

He has to offer something worth Foggy’s time. He has to use this opportunity.

“I want to suck your cock,” he makes sure his voice breaks as if he’s embarrassed by his neediness.

He isn’t.

Foggy flares to life and Matt almost moans at the heated intensity surrounding him.

“Yeah?” Foggy lets him go. Matt goes down again, anticipation chasing the blood down his veins.

He will take his sweet time. He will make it good for Foggy. He presses his tongue flat on the crotch and the hardness underneath stirs. His fingers find the hem of the trousers, the soft body beneath: the heady smell of pre-cum feels like gust of hot air in Matt’s face, clammy and wet like tropics. Matt licks his lips as he takes Foggy’s dick out; hears him moan.

“Why are you so pretty, Matt, have mercy on me,” Foggy giggles above him.

“I will not have mercy on you,” Matt chuckles quietly, wrapping his fingers slowly, one by one, around Foggy. _You had no mercy on me when you took me in as if me being yours is a celebration for you_ , he thinks as he presses his lips against the wet, petal-soft head, kissing it, tonguing it, hot and slippery. _You had no mercy on me when you gave me space for me to be the best I can as if I am able to accomplish anything worthy_ , Matt sucks Foggy’s cock in his mouth, taking more of it before releasing the head with a pop and sliding down to lick Foggy’s balls.

“You’re doing so good, Matt,” he sighs. Matt feels Foggy’s fingers hovering above his head like butterfly wings, “Is it good for you? Are you comfortable? I can move on to the bed,” he actually tries to sit up. Matt grunts in disagreement, pushing him down again.

Who _does_ that? Who cares so much when their body is pulsing with desire, when they’re sweating with selfishness?

Foggy. Foggy does that and Foggy cares and other people want Foggy for themselves.

No one want Foggy like Matt, no one needs him as much. He holds him closer, the muscles tensed; Foggy’s trying not to move. Matt’s hands wound up around the inviting thighs, up to Foggy’s ass.

Foggy squeaks, his hands finally coming down on Matt’s shoulders. Whenever he touches, Matt imagines now as marked, stained, unwashable.

His own hands, his own fingers, his own mouth, the same color, the same texture, so that everyone knows.

He wants… he wants people to notice that he’s Foggy’s. To realize once and for all whom he belongs to and who he is never letting go. So that everyone keeps their hands off until Matt ties them up together with a pretty bow, Foggy’s love and his warmth and affection a lifetime’s gift.

Matt’s grip tightens, he a crumbling bark around an oak, he is leaves around a rosebud, his mouth slack as he takes more of Foggy’s dick in his mouth. Gags slightly, then determinedly continues.

“No, no, no, Matty, you don’t have to choke yourself,” Foggy’s hands cradles his face. If their face were level, they would be perfectly posed for a kiss. 

Right, they haven’t kissed yet.

From now on they will kiss every night.

Foggy is trembling slightly; his words are adorned with concern and yet Matt shivers at the slutty taste, coating his tongue. He sucks clumsily and Foggy moans above him, loud. Matt can hear _everything_ , he hears the stuttered baby breath Foggy bites back.

He hears his name somewhere in Foggy’s mouth as well as his racing, soaking wet heart, and Matt’s dick feels like it’s been hard for _days_. He shifts and the wet material of his underwear is soft and, wow, he can come like this.

Even if he couldn't, even if every inch of skin doesn't demand Foggy, he is not letting go of the body in front of him.

“Matty, I’m gonna, Matt, your mouth,” Foggy sounds shipwrecked, his chest filled with lust, “I’m gonna come, Murdock, let go.”

Matt licks around the head of Foggy’s cock, Foggy jumps when he goes down again, and thinks about not letting go, about forcing Foggy to come down his throat.

He thinks about this specific taste and smell of Foggy inside him, a part of his viscera like he was always there, and his strung-out body pulses, as orgasm rides down along his body, an afterthought almost, to Foggy’s pleasure, to Foggy’s permission to give him pleasure.

Matt exhales shakily, wet and messy around Foggy. He wants Foggy in him so much. He can pretend swallowing him cum is an accident; he can blush, smiling guiltily as Foggy fusses over him.

But no, he is already pushing his luck with sucking Foggy off without a condom. If he wants Foggy to let him do this again, Matt’s got to be a good boy for him. The idea of Foggy calling him his good boy makes him shudder, burning up like blinking festive lights. He waits until the last moment, until Foggy’s body gets tight and strumming with energy, to back off.

He closes his mouth too late and the semen lands half on his lips, dripping down his chin.

If he’s not washing his shirt, he will be able to smell it for weeks to come. 

He… will not be washing it for a while.

“Sorry, Matt, here,” though Foggy’s blood is cloyingly sweet in his veins with endorphins, he uses his trembling, sweaty, beloved hands to wipe Matt’s face with a napkin. Matt relaxes under Foggy’s careful movements, feeling almost nostalgic and plenty tired.

They should share Foggy’s bed and in the morning Matt will make sure there is no awkwardness between them, so that the next time they relax, Foggy wouldn't have any foolish notions of Matt not wanting this.

“Well, that was a Friday night, alright,” Foggy murmurs. His voice creaks and they both giggle, “Do you want me to…” Foggy pats Matt’s underbelly _(more marks, more signs)_ but before his hand slides lower, Matt shakes his head, a short, sharp movement.

“Oh,” Foggy sounds unsure suddenly, fuck, no, Matt fucked up again, “I can… It’s okay if you don’t want to…”

“No, Foggy,” Matt smiles bashfully in a way it makes Foggy call him cute. He takes Foggy’s hand and brings it to his flat, wet crotch.

“Oh,” now it’s different, lively. His breathing catches. Is he going to say that he will want to eventually return the favor?

Or will he say something else?

Matt can’t risk it.

“Now that you’re going for cookies, bring me an apple too,” he says in a cheerful camaraderie.

“A what now?” Matt feels Foggy sinking lower on the floor, “I wasn't planning on going anywhere.”


	2. Chapter 2

Their little room smells strongly of coffee, it would reek, actually, but Matt likes the bitter, sandy scent. His cup is already cold; the fake, supposedly caramel syrup coats the inside of his mouth, and Matt stretches with his arms up and a dissatisfied groan before pushing his rolling chair back until he reaches their mini fridge. A half empty packet of sausages, a glass container full of cottage cheese, leftover curry, and an empty bottle.

Right, he forgot to buy water.

Matt briefly entertains the idea to fill the bottle with tap water but while showers are relaxing for a moment or two, the mild aftertaste of rust doesn’t wash off strong, savory flavors. He doesn’t want to suffer through something, he doesn’t want to bear anything, not anymore.

He should take a break from studying anyway. He hums absentmindedly as his fingers bump into a crunched aluminum foil. Matt opens it up with two fingers: it’s a cake, the strawberry jelly and almond cream smells chilly and fresh.

He can also detect oil from Foggy’s fingers, his sweat as he folded up the package and put it near Matt’s greens that Foggy finds tasteless.  


Matt would gladly repay him by buying something Foggy likes but the smell of the Cheetos dust in his nightmares and the noise of teeth biting into a gummy bear makes him wince.

Maybe he should give him another blow job, Matt thinks, licking the crumbs off his thumb, take Foggy’s dick in his throat, bite his thighs, keep him on the edge ‘till Foggy’s crying from pleasure and then tell him that he’s allowed to come only if he never brings potato chips in their room again. If Foggy pouts and complains about it, Matt has many ideas how to make it worth the sacrifice. They could play a doctor and patient, Matt’s tongue a stethoscope.

Matt doesn’t even notice how he finishes the whole piece, his fingers sticky and mouth full. He presses his tongue against the wet berry and sponge cake mass before swallowing. He doesn’t taste that awful faux-caramel but now there’s sugar lining the insides of his body.

Right, water.

Matt throws on a jacket and leaves the room. After a few steps, he comes back to take his white cane.

He’s been distracted lately. He’s trying to lie low right in the periphery of Foggy’s vision. Like… like a suggestion. Something ownerless, something free. A bell on a wind chimney, an empty cup on a table. He’s leaving breadcrumbs for Foggy to follow, he’s spilling water in Foggy’s eyes so that he’s too busy rubbing it out to notice anyone else.

Until Matt’s ready.

Until Foggy’s ready.

Outside welcomes him with a warm wind glossing over his hair. Someone in the above floors is growing spices on the windowsill, Matt thinks he can smell mint, spicy and refreshing, rosemary, almost nutty and warm, and under them a hint of sage. The plants keep tickling his nose long after he crosses the campus and enters the shop. He stands in line behind someone with long hair and earphones; the volume is just loud enough to hear a calming, deep voice reciting poetry. He clutches bottled water, condensation in his palm, and a pack of salty crackers, even though after Fogy finishes them the ground will be covered in salty, scratchy crystals.

Matt’s not calm, not at all. How could he be? He’s sharp and his sharpness reaches far, like the sun beams warming the edge of his glasses.

When Foggy pecks him affectionately on his temple again, Matt will lift his head so that the kiss lands on his lips. Press up, open up, so soft Foggy would giggle and hug him.

Lick the names that aren’t Matt’s off his lips.

He goes back to their home through the library. Foggy’s study session is supposed to be ending right now. Foggy didn’t leave the room to take the call, so it‘s reasonable for him to know where to go.

He would be here anyway but now he’s here without biting his way through.

Matt smiles to himself as Foggy’s warm, gentle body odor cuts through all the other clamor of smells of wood, paper, skin.

His body stiffens before he consciously recognizes Marci’s perfume. Was she there for the study group? They don’t share the lecture, do they?

They’re talking but Matt’s stuck in glue, he’s chained in place, he’s immobile in time. He was so willing to wait.

Waiting… might have been a mistake. He may stumble on a flat surface but he won’t let go, letting Foggy go is unthinkable, his heart almost crushed to jam, sticky and bruised under pressure, giving out like over-ripe peaches.

Matt steps closer, though with his breathing under control, he is able to hear Foggy’s voice from way further than he currently is.

Matt steps closer.

He will come up with something, he will keep Foggy in their room, keep him in his bed, warm and soft and trusting.

Matt steps closer to be first in line and so he hears everything.

 _Everything_. Himself included.

“My roommate is leaving this weekend,” Marci says, suggestive, _slick_.

“Don’t worry, she will come back,” Foggy answers, a familiar creak of wood under his feet, the weave of the carpet under converses.

“Right, that’s what you’re supposed to say,” she deadpans. Matt imagines her raising her eyebrow as Foggy’s sweat spikes with embarrassment, “so, are you busy this weekend?”

Foggy hums noncommittally. Matt drinks it all up.

He does not exude lust. His pheromones taste like water on Matt’s upper lip.

“Will I have to do all the work?” there’s confusion under the flirting in Marci’s voice, “come over. We could do something fun.”

 _She’s coming off too strong_ , Matt thinks confidentially, _Foggy likes sweet and honest_.

And yet Matt waits for the answer with bated breath.

His heart is a bait.

Foggy is a bait, his wrists uncovered and thin.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he finally says carefully. Matt almost chokes; that’s how high his heart jumps.

“What?” Marci asks, clearly disappointed, “well, okay. Cool.”

“Cool,” Foggy repeats faintly. He’s blushing. He sounds like he wants to say something else, apologize maybe?

Foggy definitely shouldn’t apologize for a doing great. He should be thanked. Matt’s looking forward to thanking him.

“Continue doing whatever you’re doing then,” her voice is bright again. Marci’s laughing, “it was your roommate, wasn’t it? Murdock? I wondered whether it was a package deal with you both of if he’s going to take you for himself.”

Matt cringes.

They are a package deal, sealed shut.

He is also Matt’s.

Annoyance builds up in Matt for not expressing it properly. He’s like a spider web when Foggy needs a blanket; no surprise he can see other people through the holes.

Matt relaxes his grip on his cane and leaves before he is seen. There is something pulsing inside him. Disappointment. Relief. Desire. 

They both have mock trials tomorrow; perhaps this time they can listen to some music.

*** 

They’re on the floor again but instead of beer there’s a bowl of grapes in between them; though they are plump, they taste unripe. Foggy keeps his arm around Matt, his fingers softly splayed around Matt’s middle, Foggy’s not putting enough pressure to tickle but Matt’s back is as straight as a bow anyway.

He can’t relax. The bass, coming through the laptop’s speakers, vibrates at the back on his neck. 

Foggy didn’t say anything after coming back. Well, no, he kept his usual cute chatter, warm like a scarf dried outside on a summer evening, _Matt, you lucky bastard be glad you don’t have Paterson, I’m gonna die_ and _Deborah from 310 is selling kittens, do you want one or four?_ and _there’s a poetry slam tomorrow, let’s go support our local riot grrrl vocalist_ , but he didn’t mention Marci.

Matt’s thrumming with tension, his fingers no less than an inch away from Foggy’s body and he is _miserable_ at getting what he wants.

Foggy feels like a gulp of tea by his side, a tang of lemon on the tip of his tongue, caster sugar behind his eyelids.

Maybe Matt could confess his love, a few words in near darkness. Matt can only offer himself, can only give what’s already unquestionably Foggy’s.

Matt can tell about his senses, lay it all down to Foggy’s delight and his curiosity. 

Or his anger and distrust.

Matt can’t risk it. 

He pops another berry in his mouth. It rips apart easily, sour juice flowing into his sour stomach.

His mood is sour.

Foggy shifts closer, a rustle of clothing. The air he exhales feels like a furnace on Matt’s cheek.

And then there’s a kiss, a short, dry press of lips against Matt’s temple. Foggy’s stubble makes him shiver. Another kiss on his cheekbone, it lingers, and Matt’s moan is loud and desperate and completely unfitting to the situation.

Foggy chuckles.

“That’s a nice noise,” he says conversationally. His arm tightens around Matt’s torso, “do you want me to kiss you some more?”

“Yeah,” Matt whispers and there’s Foggy’s mouth on his. _Oh_ , Foggy likes it, his lips eager and his tongue inquisitive, and Matt greedily kisses him back. Their teeth clash and Foggy licks away the hurt; Matt sucks his tongue into his mouth. Sweat feels dewy on his hairline and Foggy’s attention on him feels tangible and molasses sticky. His hand clumsily finds Foggy’s thigh and slides higher.

Foggy moves further away for an inch or two.

“I thought…” he starts and then clears his throat, “I thought eventually, when we got jobs and everything, I would trying wooing you. I mean, no 5 stars dining or expensive jewelry, _obviously_ , but something to show my appreciation for you,” he blushes, heat spreading down his neck, but his voice is firm, unwavering, sure.

Good god, good Christ, as if by that time someone wouldn’t have taken Foggy out of Matt’s clutches.

“I like wooing,” Matt answers too fast, “there’s no need to wait.”

Foggy laughs, loud and joyful.

“Yeah, okay. Just… you don’t have to prove anything to me, Matty,” Matt almost melts when Foggy’s hands envelop his face. The calluses from carpentry work he did for his relatives brush right under his eyes.

Matt keeps his eyes open and the darkness is stuffed with stars.

“I don’t kiss you because I have anything to prove,” Matt answers calmly. What a silly notion; he is Foggy’s to kiss because he is Foggy’s. 

“I don’t want you to think you have to earn my friendship or… or anything else,” Foggy tells him slowly, yet earnestly, “You… have not been loved for a long time. You seem grateful for things that are common sense and just…” Foggy sounds sadder. His heartbeat sounds soft like ripe berries falling on the grass, “you are enough, Matty, you are more than enough.”

_No, he isn’t. No, he certainly isn’t, half of him is missing, scattered under his Dad’s body, under Stick’s feet. Foggy’s hands holding what is left are warm. The sheer belief Foggy has for him wakes something up, shakes that something at his core._

“Of course,” the smile on his face feels comfortable. He is good enough to be a perfect fit in Foggy’s arms for sure. Anything else, indeed, can wait.

 _Wooing_. Matt doesn’t think he can explain properly what Foggy does to him, “kiss me again?” he volunteers.

Foggy likes kissing.

What a coincidence, so does Matt.

Matt hugs Foggy to himself as their lips meet. Foggy moans as Matt nibbles on his upper lip, licking his Cupid’s bow. Foggy’s clever tongue fills his mouth, slick and hot, the tip tickles the roof of Matt’s mouth, and Matt wants so much more like, the want licks at the inside of his body.

This time, when Matt finds Foggy’s groin, the trembling, greedy hand is allowed to stay where it is. Foggy’s heartbeat trips over itself and starts rushing even more. This lovely, gorgeous body pulses, fragile in its desire, and Matt carefully, so carefully like never before but again, again and again in the future, grinds his palm into the hardness and whispers against Foggy’s mouth:

“I want you inside me.”

Foggy groans in his throat, a deep, yet petal-soft sound, and one of his hands gropes along Matt’s waistband.

“Have you done this before?” Matt freezes for a moment: is Foggy angry? Jealous? No, Foggy’s not petty. Foggy continues sheepishly “‘cause I haven’t and without in-depth research I’m not ready for anal sex.”

“You can research me all you want,” he purrs, crawling closer, the tips of his fingers barely touching Foggy’s pubic hair.

Foggy giggles.

“Bad Matty!” _Your Matty_ , Matt thinks, kissing along Foggy’s jaw, “No, I don’t mean it, you’re brilliant,” _You’re brilliant_ , Matt muses, waiting for Foggy to finally takes his pants off and then take him, “but no, really, let’s do something else.”

Foggy drags Matt to him by his ass. Matt rides the movement – and the uptick in Foggy’s heart – like a wave, like a spring wind, like the timid warmth of the sunset.

“Are my fingers okay?” Foggy’s mouth is somewhere above Matt’s eyebrow, who in turn in too distracted by the soft hair tickling his jaw to answer, “do you want me to finger you? Would that be okay?”

“Yes!” Matt punches the answer out of himself. He will not keep Foggy waiting.

How can he when Foggy take his mess of a human being and fits it up in his future, right up there at the very top of the world?

On top of the world there is a vast, open space, which they share, they trade, handfuls of it, gives it freely.

Foggy hmms, kisses the corner of his mouth, strokes the meat of his ass.

“Okay,” he says amiably. His heartbeat is strong, needy, inviting.

When Foggy’s hand finally slips into his trousers, the gentleness of his fingers almost make Matt weep. They brush over the edge of his boxers, teasingly, though Matt’s not sure Foggy is actively trying to be a little shit. 

“That’s sexy,” Foggy rubs the silk, warmed by Matt’s body, and on any other occasion Matt would preen and flourish, but now he’s too hot, too impatient and he wants so bad. He shoves down his trousers, grumbling as Foggy giggles at Matt’s attempts to get rid of the garment. Matt kisses him wetly to regain some dignity, taking Foggy’s dick out of his sweats.

“You first,” he hisses and it comes out almost filthy.

“Yeah, okay. Wait a sec, I’ll grab lube,” Foggy pats his lower belly and a spark zings up his spine. The front of his undies is uncomfortably wet; his eyes too.

It keeps knocking him breathless: how Foggy wipes off selfishness like dirt. What’s between them is clear for Foggy to see his image in, it’s draughty and the wind is silky sharp, razor soft in Matt’s hair.

Matt has _so much time_ to speak, to act, to _think_. Matt can plan.

Matt can make sure that Foggy’s body, Foggy’s mind, Foggy’s comfort is untouchable.

He’s a rose on Foggy’s palm. 

“Here, what do you have in mind?” the tube of lube is cool and slippery in Matt’s hand as Foggy gives it to him.

“Get on top of me,” Matt takes off his boxers, pulling his bunched sheets off the bed and sitting on them, spreading his legs.

The strangled noise Foggy lets out makes him smirk, self-satisfaction itchy like glitter on his naked skin.

“You’re so bewitching, it’s unfair,” Matt hears Foggy crawling closer, the cottony whisper of his slacks on the floor. Foggy’s warm hands cradle Matt’s thighs as he sits in between them.

“Bewitching,” Matt repeats with a smile, over-enunciating the word, “You’re under my spell, then?” he asks before Foggy’s slack mouth brushes over his, planting kisses on Matt’s chin, his nose, his cheeks.

“Absolutely.”

Matt’s arms wind up around him like vines, squeezing for a moment before remembering and then loosening the hold.

Matt’s not holding somebody, a random person; he’s a vine stretching up itself thin to reach the sun.

The sun is kissing him, gently.

Matt grasps Foggy’s leaking cock with one hand. The skin is tight, the head silky and unbelievably hot. Matt is helpless, the craving to do something, everything, is crawling slowly up in him. He revels in Foggy’s pleasure and he hopes he is warm to Foggy’s touch.

His grip in slack on Foggy’s cock, fervent in its ardor. He brushes his thumb softly right beneath the head of his dick and Foggy melts.

Their mouths meet, so gently it’s more of a whisper of cotton candy than an actual touch.

“Matty, I’m gonna,” Foggy pants, twitching in his hand. Matt hums into his mouth, licks the heavy breaths and sultry words out, eats them up. 

With a shudder, Foggy orgasms. It’s messy, Matt’s fingers are sticky with sweat and cum. He pretends to scratch his chin and dips his tongue into the wetness on his palm. It’s a naked, worked-up taste of Foggy, salty and almost smoky.

“Well, glad to get that out of the way,” Foggy presses closer, his mouth not leaving the corner of Matt’s lips. Before Matt comes up with a reply which is not indignant spluttering that getting Foggy off is an _honor_ , Foggy strokes soothingly up and down his thighs and Matt doesn’t want soothing while every single inch of his body is feverish and inflamed like a too-ripe orange.

“Please, Foggy,” he goes for seductively needy, misses by a mile and comes out as unpleasantly desperate.

Foggy mellows on top of him, a cloth, heavy with water.

“I’ve got you, Matty,” he fishes out the lube from the sheets.

The first tentative, wet touch around Matt’s hole makes him moan loudly. Foggy clumsily presses their mouths together but it’s too late: the person walking past their door giggles as their steps get further away.

Foggy giggles back.

“More,” Matt exhales petulantly, his ring and pinky fingers tangled into the voluminous mass of Foggy’s hair, separate strands already sticky. Foggy’s breath is all lazy warmth on the juncture of his neck; his fingers are a mesmerizing weight in between Matt’s buttocks, not pushing, but staying, snug and soft.

“Don’t squirm,” Foggy removes his fingers and dribbles more lube on them, a sharp, plastic-like smell on the homey scent of the sweat on Foggy’s fingers, and brushes a line down his cock. Matt jumps.

He grabs Foggy’s hands and brings them down, lax fingers dipping into the crack of his ass.

“Will you put your fingers in me,” he exhales to Foggy’s _tsk_ against his eyelashes.

“So-rry, I just want to make you comfortable,” the pressure of his index finger makes Matt stiffer even more with bright anticipation but the lube is aplenty, some of it still cool, and Foggy breaches him, those careful, yielding parts of him, “my tense best friend, my lovable best friend,” Foggy chants, slipping in deeper, thrusting into Matt’s trusting body.

“Foggy, more,” Matt kisses him, exhales into his mouth, spreads his legs only to bracket Foggy more firmly against him. Foggy oozes content, a tired arousal and an attentive heart, he flutters and he flares and he pushes into Matt’s space, trickles through the microscopic orifices on his skin into where he belongs.

“Does it feel good?” Foggy mumbles into his hair, a rumble rolling down like glass marbles, two of his fingers more eager, awake at Matt’s enjoyment, at his insatiability of Foggy, _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_ , of him at Foggy’s mercy, of himself at his own appeal.

“So good,” Matt moans, his arms gripping Foggy’s shoulders, not letting go. He rolls his hips at each thrust, gasping as Foggy spreads his fingers inside him in a slightly meaner manner, “do it again,” he breathes out and Foggy listens, his best friend, his everything, he rams into him, a hint of teeth across Matt’s jaw.

Matt shudders once, twice, and he cries into Foggy’s mouth as he comes. Foggy nuzzles into him, the whisper of his hair a moonlight.

“Don’t, keep your fingers in me,” Matt urges breathlessly, his hand sliding uselessly over Foggy’s forearms. Foggy nods, kisses his cheek, his fingers stay. 

Matt’s waiting till his heart matches Foggy’s, slightly quick, elated heartbeat, his lips tingling under Foggy’s. He relaxes slowly, unraveling his body like a dough, chilled overnight, and Foggy stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found the “My roommate is leaving this weekend,” and “Don’t worry, she will come back,” joke on tumblr (or maybe Facebook). It was one of the variations of "My parents aren't home".
> 
> I really dislike the "You can't love someone unless you love yourself" discourse. It's vicious, manipulative and down-right incorrect. Love and care are not products in a vending machine. Struggling with yourself in no way makes you unlovable or unloving.
> 
> Thank you for reading this fic <3


End file.
